


Elementary

by Cesare



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Bottom!Erik, Fetish, M/M, Metal Fetish, Object Insertion, Teaching, Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-16
Updated: 2011-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-26 03:45:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/278313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cesare/pseuds/Cesare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally posted <a href="http://synecdochic.dreamwidth.org/510928.html?thread=21589200#cmt21589200">here</a> for the prompt: <em>Toys in bed are fun. Metal toys, with Magneto involved? Even more fun. \o/</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Elementary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ysobel (isabeau)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/isabeau/gifts).



"I certainly hope your training regimes for the others don't involve anything quite this... intrusive," says Erik, settling on his stomach in Charles's bed.

"Would you like a blindfold?" Charles asks, bringing over a valet tray that was certainly not designed to hold the sorts of things currently resting on the velvet.

"Why do I need a blindfold? You'll be able to tell if I try to look."

"I didn't say you'd need one," Charles answers, "I asked if you would like one. Legs apart, please."

Erik would like to complain that a proper professorial demeanor has no place in the bedroom, but the truth is, it does something for him, the way Charles feigns detachment while his trousers tent and his color rises. Charles still thoroughly buttoned up but flushed, his mouth bitten with kisses: it's one of Erik's favorite sights in the whole wretched world.

He opens his legs to let Charles settle between them. Charles trails his fingers up the backs of Erik's thighs.

"No blindfold," Erik eventually remembers to say.

"Mm. Eyes closed, then," Charles says, and there's that peculiar, appealing pretense at detachment again: with no further ceremony he cups and rubs Erik's ass, a sure touch, firm, almost like a massage. But Erik has never tilted up into a massage, never spread his thighs in a silent demand for more.

"Getting a bit ahead of yourself," says Charles, but his hands vanish briefly and return with the tube of Surgilube aimed right where it matters; the stuff goes on cold, but even that has become, through positive association, enjoyable. Erik's never asked how Charles got hold of medical lubricant-- telepathic trickery seems most likely, but then again, with the kind of money Charles appears to have at his disposal, it's unlikely much exceeds his reach-- and he's never asked _why_ Charles has it. He'd rather not hear that Charles has a drawerful for his various paramours.

There have definitely been men before Erik, he's certain of that, and for the most part he's glad of it. Charles is good at this, deft, gently insinuating, and Erik's taking three fingers before he knows it.

"There you are. Good," Charles purrs. "Ready? Eyes closed?"

"Yes, and yes," Erik says, the last "s" melting into a hiss as Charles pushes cool smooth metal inside him.

He thinks of himself being as far from innocent as it's possible to be, but Erik honestly didn't expect anything like this when Charles supplied metals and alloys and instructed him to make one object of this shape from each element. He made them utterly identical, using his most precise control to create that smooth oblong shape exactly; he assumed Charles was testing his ability in some new way, that perhaps he'd give them to Hank to examine for uniformity, to see if Erik is equally capable with each substance.

That idea seems more than a little absurd _now,_ of course.

"Focus, please," Charles says, stroking the metal in and out. "What is it?"

"Stainless steel," Erik gets out between his teeth.

"One for one." Charles pushes it deeper still, til Erik's seeing lights and clutching the sheets, his erection as hard as that steel. And then it withdraws, and Charles sets it aside. Erik hopes it's not going into the valet tray like that, it'll ruin the lining.

Charles's words finally register and Erik realizes-- that was just the first one. He thought Charles was going to pick one to use off that tray, he thought Charles would tease him with it a little before fucking him. This is much... much worse, or better, or... both.

The next rod pushes against him and slides in as his body yields, and Erik groans. He can't help feeling out the metal with his power, and in the process he has the surreal experience of feeling _himself,_ the tight clutch of his own body, as well as the warmth and strength of Charles's fingers on the end.

"What is it?" Charles prompts.

It takes him a moment, there's the draw of nickel commanding his attention, but after a few more moments adjusting to the friction, the pressure, oh, right _there..._

"Silver," he answers, "Alloyed with nickel-- more--"

"If I give you more with this one, we'll never finish," says Charles, "or rather, you will, and then where will we be?" His tone is light, but Erik can hear how fast he's breathing, feel his rapid pulse in his fingertips right through the silver.

It's a few more strokes, too few, and then the silver's gone. Erik's hips hitch against the mattress, but Charles rests a hand on his thigh; just that hint of censure and Erik's still again.

"I know you can respond more quickly than this," Charles says. "You don't have to think about it or analyze it, not when they're this different from one another, and you already know what they are. You only think you have to think about it. This is instinctive for you. I want you to answer right away when I give you the next one."

Erik tries to calm himself, sucks a breath in and slowly releases it. "Ready," he says, and as the rounded tip presses into his ass he pants, "Gold."

"Brilliant," Charles says warmly, and he's slow with this one, easing it in and out of Erik's body til Erik is shuddering and sweating and so close, so close, and then it's gone; he fists his hands and holds back a growl of frustration. He won't give Charles the satiisfaction.

"One more. What's this one?" Charles asks.

Erik waits. Nothing happens; he says, "Nothing's touching me."

"No," Charles agrees. "And it won't, until you tell me what it is. You don't have to touch it to know, Erik. You can move metal; you can sense its presence; you can feel this, as well."

"I can't--" Erik extends his awareness. He can feel all the metal in the room; he can feel how ferromagnetic each is, based on its varying response to his power. But beyond that, it's asking too much to expect him to sense exactly what sort of metal it is. He's never needed to know before. He just needs it to come to him, to bend for him, to move at his command. "This is pointless."

"It could save your life," Charles says. "You need a shield and you feel two metal sheets around you, and choose one at random-- metal is metal. But you chose hardened steel when you could've used titanium, and the steel shatters, and then," Charles loses the didactic tone, brushing the backs of his fingers against the small of Erik's back, little caresses. "I would miss you. We can't have that."

Charles tends to delay his poignant moments until Erik is half out of his mind with excitement, as if he's trying to sneak them past by making certain Erik is thoroughly distracted first. It works out too well for Erik, he can't possibly object.

He's not so sure it isn't for the best, anyway; if he had to answer, he's not sure what he'd say. Charles doesn't give him a chance, pressing fingers into him now to make certain Erik's gasping, lifting for it, aching to get a hand under and touch himself, too proud to actually reach down. Aching to get that rod inside him, and _much_ too proud to use his power to put it where he wants it.

"It's right here in my other hand," Charles tells him. "I can reach a lot deeper with it than I can with my fingers, and I know how good it feels to you. All you have to do is sense what it is."

Erik fists his hands hard. He made nine of them, there are titanium and platinum, iron and copper, aluminium and rhodium; he's already felt the steel, the silver, the gold. He could guess, if nothing else, take a chance... but no, he can't, he _needs_ this. The rod in Charles's hand isn't responding to Erik's power as readily as some of the others, it's dissipating the heat of his fingers, it's... there's nickel in the alloy, he can feel...

"Copper," Erik says, and he can't hold back the moan as Charles thrusts it inside him, unerring, _perfect,_ and Erik's not too proud now to take himself in hand and let a few short strokes bring him off, his throat tight with relief and triumph.

The copper pulls out and joins the others in the tray. Erik can feel the steel and brass of the zipper on Charles's trousers as Charles quickly opens his fly; the zipper curls with the movement of his hand, quick and desperate.

"You can fuck me," Erik says, because Charles always asks first, but Charles only makes a throttled noise and comes, the first jet falling onto Erik before Charles catches the rest, in his palm or whatever he has back there.

Erik relaxes. He's never felt more in control; of his body, reclaimed from the frenzy of arousal; of the metal in the room. The bedframe is wrought iron, the springs in the bed are steel, the clock is brass, Charles's watch lying next to it is sterling silver. The nine rods feel so distinct to him now that he can't quite believe he couldn't tell them apart without touching them before.

He rolls over onto his back to get out of the wet spot and waits as Charles discards the rest of his clothes, puts the valet tray aside to deal with cleaning later, and crawls up the bed to lie alongside him.

"I've certainly learned my lesson," says Erik.

Charles's voice sounds like a smile as he touches Erik's face and says, "Yes. You can open your eyes."


End file.
